


Get It While You Can

by Lenore



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Comment Fic, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-27
Updated: 2009-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is tired of peeling Pete's drunken butt up off the carpet the morning after. Pete is frustrated that Patrick won't stick to the script he has in his head of how this is supposed to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get It While You Can

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious consent is part of Pete's fantasy. If that makes you uncomfortable, you should probably skip this one.

"Dude. Seriously? We've got a photo shoot at ass o'clock in the morning. I'm not peeling your drunken butt off the hotel carpet again." Patrick crosses his arms over his chest.

Pete shrugs, swirls the martini in his glass and throws it back in one, smooth motion. He hasn't had nearly as many of these as Patrick thinks, but he doesn't mention that fact. Pushing Patrick is too much fun. Pushing Patrick is kind of the point, actually.

It works, although not the way Pete would like. Patrick glares and says, "Have fun feeling like shit tomorrow." And stomps off, no doubt to go back to his room. His only fuck you to Pete will be to fire up the laptop and hunker down with GarageBand and show Pete what's what with his vicious flashes of genius. As fuck you's go, it's on the feeble side. Pretty damned handy for making those gold records, though.

The script in Pete's head of how this is supposed to go plays out very differently.

In his fantasy, Patrick doesn't storm away. He lurks in a corner and tries to pretend he's not watching and works up a slow boil as Pete drinks too much and flirts too much and just generally acts like a whore. At some point, Pete slinks off to the bathroom for a quick fuck with some guy who's been circling around, dropping smiles. There are always guys like that, pretty as a cookie cutter. The one in Pete's fantasy is even more vague and faceless than usual. A mere plot device.

Jump cut, three seconds in the future, and Pete's back hits the wall of the bathroom stall. There are hands and mouths and cocks, and his brain glosses over the rest. It's just an establishing shot for the important scene that comes later.

There's more booze afterwards, and sometimes more faceless sex. It all depends on how much of a build up Pete is in the mood for.

Tonight, Pete's imagination fast-forwards to the main event, back in his hotel room at the end of the night. Sometimes he makes it to the bed, and sometimes he passes out on the floor. Always he's naked. Not asleep, not exactly, simply floating, caught in the twilight between the night before and the morning after.

He never hears Patrick come in. Just suddenly there he is, crouching over Pete, his face tight with fury.

Pete is conscious enough to know what Patrick is doing. He'd consent if Patrick asked. Patrick doesn't know that. He doesn't care what Pete wants. He pushes Pete's legs back to his chest, too rough, making Pete's thighs burn, his calves cramp. Patrick doesn't give a shit if it hurts. He touches a finger to Pete's hole. Pete is still wet and open from whoever had him last. No need for lube. Not that it matters to Patrick. He'd fuck Pete dry just to hear him scream his name.

"Fucking slut." Patrick's face contorts with vengeful intent. "I'll show you who you fucking belong to."

He forces Pete's legs further apart with his hands and thrusts inside, so hard, so far, so fast that Pete's head snaps back and he can't breathe. There are no condoms in his fantasy, no need for them, nothing at all allowed to get between him and Patrick. The sound track is oddly muted. The almost savage way Patrick fucks him should make Pete cry out, should make him sob and beg for Patrick to _stop, no, no, don't stop, fuck me harder_. But the only thing Pete ever hears is Patrick: grunting and panting and promising Pete that he's going to _teach you a fucking lesson, ream your ass until you can't even fucking breathe without thinking of me, so you don't ever fucking forget who fucking owns you_.

He leaves fingerprints in bruises all over Pete's skin and brands "property of" with his teeth and tongue on Pete's neck, where everyone will see it for days to come. It's not quite enough to satisfy Pete's operatic need to be claimed, because what ever will be, but it comes close. So close.

 

Pete accepts another martini from the bartender, swirls the olive in it idly. He watches out of the side of his eye, and there they are, the cookie cutter pretty boys, waiting for a snap of his fingers, like they always are. Pete quirks a smile at one of them. He's not going to get what he wants, so he might as well get all he can.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as comment fic, and I ran out of characters, so I ended the snippet here. But in my mind, Patrick comes storming back into the bar and grabs Pete by the arm and calls him an idiot and drags him off to his room. And they have hot, really possessive sex, and Pete gets dominated by Patrick just the way he wants, and everyone lives happily ever after. That's the rest of the story I didn't have room to write.


End file.
